


dirty//clean

by mishkinat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Blood, Dark, Depression, Drug Use, Drugs, Fights, Fist Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Happy, Heavy Angst, High Sherlock, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Injury, John is a Saint, Love, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9224090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishkinat/pseuds/mishkinat
Summary: Sherlock without John is agony.Sherlock with John is blissful.A contrast, with a day in the life of Sherlock.





	1. dirty

He was dirty. Sherlock stared into the darkness of the room, suddenly aware of everything. The syringe fell from his fingertips. The slight flickering of the lamp outside, the buzzing noise it made which pierced his eardrums and span his head around. The heartbeats, his own? It thumped away, letting him know he alive. He groaned. There were others there, too. He could see their thin, vague outlines as they writhed and squirmed, occasionally grunting and occasionally laughing. 

Time was dead here. He never needed to worry here, in hell. Everything just was what it was. People would come and then would leave just as quickly. Nobody paid much attention. How long had he been here? He thought, with a heavy heart he pretended to ignore. Sherlock was itching. It had become uncomfortable and the slight rush he had gained from the cocaine had worn off faster than before. He lifted another, and injected more. Before, it had been good. A slight gasp escaped his lips, it was the sweetest rush. His veins burned, his head exploded with pleasure. 

This time was different. He was broken. The more he injected, the less he felt. The more he faded back into the darkest corner of his mind. He had been here too long.

The door creaked open and dozens of dead eyes immediately gazed that way.

"Turn out the light." One woman screamed. The door slammed shut.

How did he get here? He didn't remember. A slight panic rose up in his throat. It was all wrong, all wrong, too wrong. He stopped suddenly, and stared back into the darkness of the room, remembering. John. John had gone and Sherlock had cared a lot.

Sherlock always cared too much.

That's why he had the cocaine. Sherlock relaxed. The cocaine. It helped him with that feeling. What was it?

Loneliness. John. He lifted the syringe, ready to inject. Ready for the biggest rush of his body and mind.

A hand, cold yet sweaty grabbed his wrist from the darkness.

"Man. You've been doing that all night. One more time and you won't come back." 

Sherlock shrugged him off and tried again.

The hand tore the syringe from his grip.

"Stop it, man! It's not all for you."

Sherlock groaned in frustration. "Give it to me."

The man pushed Sherlock down hard.

"I need it." Sherlock hissed.

"Of course you do, you fucking junkie. But no more tonight." 

Sherlock staggered up, outraged. He swung a fist at the man, who quickly dodged and threw a punch back. The fist hit Sherlock straight in the eye. It stung sharp and he could feel the heat around it, swelling up, ugly. 

"I've had enough of you. Night after night. Get the fuck out." The man yelled, grabbing Sherlock by the throat. It hurt, but Sherlock was glad it was something. Sherlock wanted to feel more. He threw another punch, directly into the man's nose which gave a satisfying crack as he screeched in a horrible pain. "Fuck you!"

The man jumped on Sherlock, and whacked him with a block of wood. Sherlock fell to the ground. For a moment he felt scared. Blackout.

 

When he came around a minute later, he was splayed out in a bright white room. His eyes hurt, his face felt swollen and his head ached as if it were pierced with thorns. He looked up to see a threatening man, obviously placed there to intimidate him. He couldn't return here and so he wanted to make the best of it. But Sherlock wanted the pain. He staggered to his feet. He was dirty. He swung his fist at the man and missed. The man's face was red and he kicked him hard in the stomach. Sherlock doubled over in pain, but staggered up again. He got greeted with a fist to his lip. A ring. It tore his chin and lip. Pain. He grinned, blood dribbling through his teeth and down his chin.

"What the fuck do you want, boy?" The man kicked him again, winding him.

Sherlock whined, unable to get any breath into his lungs. 

"To disappear." He gasped. "Completely." He climbed to his feet again, using the wall for support which he had left bloodied hand prints on.

"Fuck this, man. Fuck it. You're fucked." The man stormed out the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock screamed out. No. Where was he? Where was John? He grabbed his hair in his fist and yelled. He continued screaming until nothing was left and fell back and stared into the whiteness of the room.

 

When John found him, he had tears in his eyes. Sherlock flooded out a thousand apologies, shaking his head and crying. John shushed him and held him close to him. Sherlock was not being selfish this time. He was lost, and John understood everything. John always did. He understood the words he was trying to force out of his mouth but just would not come. John protected him, listened to him and held him. He loved him like his brother never showed. He loved him more. When he was with John, he thrived, and they both knew that. It made them happy. He told him he could always call him, any time at all. Sherlock knew this. He nodded and they both cried. John would help him. They both knew that. They loved each other and they both knew it. They stayed together, crying and loving and it felt clean again. But it was not real and Sherlock knew that. He was dirty.

 

 

Nice dream.


	2. clean

When Sherlock arrived home, three days later, he was weak and injured. 

But he soon forgot about that. As he gently pushed the door open, he was greeted with a homely, familiar face. 

John.

He could have died right there. It was magical. It was stronger than any drug, more powerful and more euphoric than any drug. 

"Jesus, Sherlock-" It was  _John_. Sherlock took a couple of stumbling steps forward before collapsing by his chair. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock reached a hand out to test his faith, to see if it was really happening. John took it, and it was real. Sherlock felt John's arms around him, lifting up as delicately as possible and placed him in his chair which he immediately fell back into. 

"Oh Christ, Sherlock." He could hear the fear, the rawness of John's throat, "You're not going to do this to me now, not again."

John felt a surge of emotion, the most immense sadness and anger, mostly at himself. His chest heaved and all he could do was pull Sherlock into him. Protect him.

Sherlock's weak, cold hand clutched John's sleeve in response. John let out a quick, half-sob. 

"Three days." Sherlock whispered. "Since."  _Three days clean_. He screamed to himself. John understood. He took Sherlock's hand in both of his and pressed his face against it. Relief flooded through them both.

"Well, you're home now. We are home now, both of us." John spoke softly, tenderly. He was not angry, how could he be? "Wait a minute, wait." 

John rushed into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. "Have some. Small sips."

Sherlock obliged, exhausted. He ran a hand through his hair, greasy and dirty. He would have felt dirty. But John was there, John with his love and emotion and he felt clean. He was going to be clean again. When Sherlock looked as if he were about to pass out from exhaustion, John helped him into his bedroom and into his bed. His eyes were sad but his mind was ready for action should Sherlock need any medical attention. Sherlock slept immediately.

Over the next few days, John hardly slept himself. Mrs Hudson inquired, sighed, sobbed and eventually cried with happiness as Sherlock began to show signs of his old self. Even Lestrade, on visiting refrained from making jokes, and instead looked pained at the sight of the broken man who occasionally stirred for food or drink. Yet John was encouraged with every day that passed, and by the start of the next week this hope was justified. Sherlock emerged from his room one morning, shaved and clean and groomed and most of all, smiling.

"John Watson." He grinned, sitting back down in his usual seat. "Sorry for all that." He attempted a joke.

John couldn't help but smile either, it was a relief. It was normal again. No more pain, no more grittiness, no more dirt. 

"I owe you many thanks, John. This is the end of all my past troubles, tears, pain. I owe you a hell of a lot, I realise that now." 

John was astonished. He felt privileged to be hearing these words, so much so he was speechless.

"I've put an end to it all." Sherlock had such a joyful air around him, it was hard to believe the state he was in a week ago. "Now that I'm clean."

John couldn't do anything but laugh, not sardonically but out of a blissful confusion. Sherlock Holmes was a mystery, but John realised how lucky they both were to have each other.  They were ready again, to have that life again. Yet now it was different, there would be no chance for either of them to go too off the rails without the other holding them back. They were together, a unit. Just as it should be. It was neat, tidy and clean. 

"I'm just glad..." John managed to blurt out, "about how right this feels."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :) Comments are very appreciated on what you like/what I can change
> 
> The next chapter will contrast this! It will be more fluffy.


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